Basque Roast Chicken

I fell asleep quickly on the night train over to Donostia (San Sebastian in Basque), the day at the Prado and the park having worn me out sufficiently. The sun had just risen in the slumbering city, most likely everyone had just gone home from partying not 2 hours before. 8 in the morning was too early for the hostal to answer the door, so I walked to a cafe that had just opened and had a coffee and Napolitan (chocolate filled croissant), kind of sweet for the morning but balanced off alright with the small but rightly bitter and saltylike coffee.

Whiling my time away with journal writing and looking at whoever else was up at such an ungodly hour, I finally made it to 9. At the hostal, I dropped off my bag, changed into trunks, and went off to the beach, my one and only goal. I laid in the sun with my mat from Nice at the larger beach. The tide comes in rather far, so sand was hard and packed, not really conducive to form fitting comfort on the beach, but going to sleep is never a problem. Actually, the hardness was an advantage. Once it woke me up, I could turn over to be sure I didn’t cook one side too well-done.

After having done this for most of the morning, the clouds began to roll in. I hadn’t seen clouds since Switzerland, and they were quite a welcome sight for nostalgia’s sake. At about 3 I decided that if I didn’t go to the other beach, it would be too late or too cold. The transition to San Sebastian also brought cooler weather that contrasted from my home in the old world. At the surfer beach, the sand was much softer and I almost felt like kicking myself for not coming here first. But I made good use of time and slept another couple of hours there, a much more restful sleep. The waves pounded in far into the sand, and surfers rose and fell like history. The lifeguard at this side was equipped with about 4 to 5 people, and they even had a amphibian machine to carouse the beach and surf. I wondered briefly about how many surfers have been carried out to sea, beamed by their own board, or smashed against the far side of the beach where a rock wall stood.

When it was about time to head back to the hostal, it was already early evening. At this time, I looked at my tumtum and legs, and found them a glowing red color. I seem to have misplaced my faith in my melanin count and gotten what I’ve heard so many complain about, something called a sunburn or whatever. At the hostal, the aches had begun so I just slept more to recuperate some.

At night I went out to dinner with five other friendly folks from my hostal, but alas my faith in fellow travelers is misplaced. I gave up a night of supposedly some of the best Spanish cuisine to go to a fast food paella joint, eating my dinner with gusto since I was hungry, but plotting my return at some future date already. The charm of smaller towns in any place really catch me, and this was no exception. Plus, how could I not come back for food after the fast food paella wasn’t horrible, though nothing compared with a proper one, as if I knew what a proper one would be like.

That evening, most places were closed after 2, the clubs giving their clientele a well deserved break in order to juice up for the rest of the week. I went to sleep at an early 3, only to have to wake at 6 for my continuing journey to my wine destination, Bourdeaux.